We’re replacing this month’s editor’s letter with our first-ever Papotage horoscope, divined by Certified Practitioner of Dactyliomancy and member of the American Association of Professional Astrologers, Ms Calista Soleil-Heart. Let’s see if our loyal readers notice . . .
     (Editor’s note: The advice dispensed and the opinions expressed within the following horoscopes are not necessarily the advice or opinions of Papotage, its well-fed contributors, Restaurant Florent, (the man) Florent, Memo-NY, or dirty al, webmistress to the stars.)

HORRI-SCOPE FOR THE PISCAL SEASON
Calista Soleil-Heart, C.P.D., member A.A.P.A.

AQUARIUS . . . 20.1-18.2 . . . Happy Birthday, Waterman/woman/person of indeterminate gender! I hate being the one to tell you, but your new face is going to have to wait until both this malpractice insurance strike is resolved and that contaminated blood supply is replaced. You’re best bet would be putting the whole thing off until next year. Who told you to schedule elective surgery in the Year of the Ram?

PISCES . . . 19.2-20.3. . . . A happy birthday, to you, as well, Fishy! The approaching spring will bestow a jubilant rebirth for you, like a groovy chrysalis from his/her/its cocoon of despair. Until then, even though I hate to dampen the festive mood, you’ll just have to suffer through the cold (and the award show season) like the rest of us. Someone will stumble upon something very embarrassing the week of the 3rd.

ARIES . . . 21.3-19.4 . . . It would be easy for me to tell you to Ram it up Uranus. But I’m lazy this month, so Ram it up Uranus. Does that anger you, Signe de Guerre? Well, it’s supposed to. Not only does it make you look better, but it keeps you interesting. And while you’re at it, chew on this: Perhaps New York City would be better off without you. How does that make you feel?

TAURUS . . . 20.4-20.5 . . . My older sister, Corona Soleil-Moon, is also a Bull. I sincerely hope you’re nothing like her. The most unpleasant of her many unpleasantries is her inability to keep her squared, horned mug out of my china shop of individuality. Quick to judge and reeking of onions, you need to know that I’m no longer afraid of you. Your lover’s ass is slapped with court papers on the 10th.

GEMINI . . . 21.5-21.6 . . . Speaking of twins. Yer’ havin’ ‘em! E.P.T. tests aren’t always right, you know. Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know this, but it’s true. I’d tell you to write your congressperson, but you’ve got bigger buns in the oven. At least you know now, so you can start saving money. Look out! A Botox party goes haywire on the 28th.

CANCER . . . 22.6-22.7 . . . Crabby, Crabby, Crabby!! You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You’re either blind, or stupid. Too bad there’s no THIMK sign anywhere in your chart. And remember, in case you’re lucky enough to have a next time, women don’t have Adam’s apples and tomcats don’t have teets. Do not do what you’re planning to do on the 4th of July.

LEO . . . 23.7-22.8 . . . As Janis Japlon sang, in Kris Kristoffersen’s original lyrics to Me and Bobby McGee, "Bris is just another word for snip job for Jews." It’s also the second syllable of hubris, of which I’m afraid, dear Lion/ess/a, you are major-league guilty. And by the look of your solar houses, I wouldn’t go throwin’ shade if I was you.

VIRGO . . . 23.8-22.9 . . . Forget everything they say, you coy, fresh, moist, young thing. You’re perfect. In every way. Just look at your garden. Look at those buds. Imagine how they will grow. Personally, I, Calista Soleil-Heart, wouldn’t change a thing about you . . . except maybe remove all the shears from the greenhouse of your mind.

LIBRA . . . 23.9-23.10 . . . And you, well, I hesitate to call you "Scaley" because of that hideous skin condition that runs down the right side of your body like a tree fungus. It’s funny that it’s only the right side of your body, though, don’t you think? Why do you suppose the left side remains unaffected? Well, come in off the ledge. Your luck’s about to change! Yes, 2004 looks like smooth sailing. Just hold on.

SCORPIO . . . 24.10-21.11 . . . In 1968, my husband and I camped out in the desert (just outside a military complex that I am forbidden by law to mention). One night, we were visited by a giant Scorpion, who, among other things, foresaw this current "War on Terror." He told us it could all be resolved with a well-timed, well-placed whoopie cushion in the chamber of the U.N. Security Council. Maybe two. It’s worth a shot.

SAGITTARIUS . . .22.11-21.12 . . . There’s blood in your eighth lunar house this month, Sadge. And there’s grass stains in your ninth. Looks like you need some psychic Tide. It’s true, you’re very unstable these days. Those Zolofts in the drawer that you promised your doctor you’d take? Perhaps you should crack them out, before you kill someone (and bury their body at the Country Club).

CAPRICORN . . . 22.12-19.1 . . . Atkins-Schmatkins, Cappy! Allow me to let you in on a little secret—and this is between you and I: a certain daytime chat show host and cheap shoe pitchwoman, who claims not to diet an ounce, has not eaten a single, simple carb since The View started. But don’t worry, you’re not overweight. For a person your age. Finally, disregard everything you read in the next horoscope that you consult (you can’t help yourself, it’s habitual). It will be full of bad advice.